


All That Was (And All That Will Be)

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, late night visits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-09-29 19:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10142231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: "Her heart is jumping in her chest, stuck somewhere between fear and grit. It's not the first time she has visited one of his safe houses at this hour but she wishes it could happen under very different circumstances for once. Not as a last resort, but a place where they could disregard the rules that separate them. Three sharp knocks. She can hear his footsteps approach, watches as the door slowly opens.He can't always run away. She hopes he doesn't want to."





	1. What Changed?

**Author's Note:**

> A new fic to get us all through the hiatus. Lizzie pays Red a visit. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and please leave a comment if you can! Enjoy!

It's always the same question. She always asks herself the same question.

It had happened gradually, a slow shift, a moment she couldn't seem to pinpoint. A new reality creeping in. Until suddenly she had realized that he hadn't stopped by her apartment like he had promised. That he mostly called, that face-to-face conversations had become a rarity. That really, when she came to think of it, their talks had been brief and formal. That he hadn't touched her in weeks.

And now, months stand between them. A distance she doesn't know how to bridge. And she's so alone.

It's always the same question.

_What changed?_

* * *

It's three memories she conjures up on the bad days. Three instances that couldn't have been a lie.

His body hidden behind bloodstained glass, the sound of her own footsteps echoing through the room like gunshots, her heavy breathing, she could almost sense it, the sudden panic that froze his movements, the shock, _not her_ , the hasty turn, _anyone but her_ , his willingness to kill, those five pivotal letters, their eyes meeting through crimson patches and his apologetic smile, like he never had a choice, like he would always put her life above his own. Like it was a logical sacrifice to make.

A night out on the ocean and their glasses raised in a quiet toast, the gentle sensation of his hand guiding her outside, the wind, the stars, the setting of daring gestures and mythical tales, so very _classic_ , the strange shyness that had surrounded him, unable to look at her, his words soft and clear, _when I look at you_ , and her pulse racing, racing, racing, _I see my way home_. A declaration so pure and simple. Its implications mending the broken pieces between them.

The knife leaving dents on her skin, not quite cutting the surface but dangerously close, no way out, no more schemes in place, they had been ambushed and forced to surrender and she could feel it, his eyes burning into her and his anger radiating, the cruelty of making him watch, she knew it would destroy him, the physical pain so insignificant in comparison. The sheer force when he had broken free, raw and strong. The fact that he hadn't wasted a single moment to go to her. Like she was the only thing that mattered.

And now she's staring at the image in front of her, a picture she had taken of him once when he hadn't noticed, a clandestine personal souvenir that she carries with her. Maybe the only private photograph that exists of him these days. The perfect shot.

It shouldn't be this hard. It's not supposed to be this hard. But she is losing him a bit more every day, like sand trickling through an hourglass, and she doesn't know how to stop it.

She remembers a time when he had waited for her across the street, when he had held her to him and taken her home, when they had spent hours talking on the couch with no room between them, content and relieved, when they had eventually fallen asleep next to each other. The worst of it over, the best yet to come.

And then she had returned to the Post Office. And he had stayed away.

There's a bitter taste on her tongue and a tremble in her fingers and it's late. She wonders if he's asleep. She thinks if she still knows the easiest thing about him, he wouldn't be.

Perhaps it's the only way. A confrontation, a request. A plea to tell her the truth. For her own sake and for his. And her car keys are so close, she can spot them out of the corner of her eye, and she's done being rational, she's done playing games.

With a swift move she grabs the keychain and her jacket and heads out the door.

He can't always run away.

She hopes he doesn't want to.

* * *

Her heart is jumping in her chest, stuck somewhere between fear and grit.

It's not the first time she has visited one of his safe houses at this hour but she wishes it could happen under very different circumstances for once. Not as a last resort, but a place where they could disregard the rules that separate them. Something like progress. Another music box waiting for her.

Her body is tense as she gets out of the car and walks up the stairs. If he has maintained his rituals, she muses, he would be inside with a book in one hand and a glass of Lagavulin in the other. Depending on his mood, he would have picked a Lionel Hampton or Duke Ellington record to lend the room the proper atmosphere, the lights dim and his vest unbuttoned. This was her favorite version of him. The one without the armor.

Three sharp knocks.

She can hear his footsteps approach, watches as the door slowly opens.

"Lizzie."

It's plain and quick and infuriatingly nonchalant, his surprise so effectively concealed, these years of practice, but she doesn't miss the twitch of his lips, the one reflex that had always exposed him. It makes her pause for a moment and look at him. _Really_ look.

He seems tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from lack of sleep, but the kind of exhaustion that comes with loss. When the days drag on and the mind remains in a haze, when a physical part goes missing. She would recognize the signs anywhere. She knows the feeling all too well.

Maybe this isn't the right time. Maybe she should let him rest, come back another night.

Maybe she should set up a meeting like one of his business associates.

Maybe she's simply scared of his response.

But this is her life, too, and her burden to bear. And he doesn't get to make all the decisions by himself.

She just wants to talk to him. She just wants an answer.

A deep breath and an appeasing smile.

"May I come in?"


	2. Do You Remember?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank you all for your kudos and comments. Even if I don't respond to them individually, I really cherish every single one :) I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thanks for reading.

He didn't expect her. Not at all.

He should have guessed she wouldn't simply let him disappear like that but she wasn't supposed to catch him off-guard. He should have been prepared, should have kept up appearances. A crisper shirt, a clean shave. Minor details to go unnoticed by the untrained eye. But she'll know. She always does.

He wonders what brings her here in the middle of the night. He wonders why she looks this broken, wants to grab the bad things that haunt her and destroy them, dismantle them bit by bit. Wants to apologize. He had been so convinced he had made the right choice, granting her a life without him, normality, removing himself from the equation, difficult as it may be. Bearing the pain it would bring.

And now she's staring back at him. And he wonders how he could ever think of leaving her.

"Of course. Come in," he finally responds. Steps to the side to make room.

He doesn't know how this night will end.

For once, he doesn't have a clue.

* * *

"Would you care for a drink? Tea, coffee?"

"Tea would be nice, thank you."

She watches him move to the kitchen and takes off her coat, makes her way over to the living room. It's familiar to her, this particular safe house. They've discussed cases here before, have shared dinner, and it calms her nerves a bit, the warm environment, the bookshelves lining the walls. Memories she treasures.

She's uncertain where to start. Maybe she should have made a plan beforehand, thought about the right things to say, but it had seemed silly to prepare this explicitly. He is still _Red_ , not a stranger, and she should be able to talk to him, honestly, truthfully, without her fingers trembling and her pulse racing. It shouldn't mean this much.

Except it _does_. It means everything.

Their relationship means _everything_.

"Have a seat," she hears him say and is shaken from her thoughts, thanks him when he hands her the mug. He sits down across from her, reaches for the glass already waiting for him on the table, and looks at her expectantly. She recognizes it, his signature gaze and the feelings it elicits, the way it makes her want to confess her deepest secrets, the way it silences every word on her tongue because of it. The way it mesmerizes and seduces. _The center of his universe_.

"Duke Ellington, isn't it?" she begins carefully, had noticed the music the moment she came in.

He can't fully hide his surprise. "It is, yes."

She nods, puts down the cup and folds her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. Her guess had been right. Small victories.

"Do you remember the first time you played this record for me?"

She watches his lip twitch in response. It's the only answer she needs. Her turn.

"The FBI had almost caught up with us that day, twice actually, but somehow we had managed to make it back to the safe house. We were both exhausted and you suggested I should get some rest and I told you I'd rather stay awake a bit longer, so you poured us both a drink and I sat down in the living room. And then you put on this particular record and joined me a few minutes later."

She pauses for a moment and softly smiles to herself like someone reminiscing about something dear, something precious.

"It was the first time you didn't pick the leather chair as your preferred spot, I noticed. You sat down next to me on the couch instead. Not too close, but still next to me. It was nice, as if you wanted to make sure I was okay."

His heart is beating rapidly in his chest. He's never heard her version of the story.

"I asked you what we were listening to and you told me it was Duke Ellington. That he was one of your favorites. That you always felt like you were reconnecting with an old friend when you put on his music. I remember your fingers tapping along, predicting every note as if it was the simplest composition. I was fascinated by it. You must have listened to it dozens of times."

"Probably hundreds," he corrects quietly.

"You told me to pay attention to the way the instruments interacted with each other, a give and take, and I watched you from the side, watched your eyes light up. It was a wonderful thing, you sharing something personal with me. Something you're passionate about. It felt special. And then after a while, the record stopped and everything went quiet. And you turned to look at me."

He's tightening the grip on his glass. He thinks it might break any second.

"And do you remember what happened then, Red?"

He does, of course he does. But he doesn't say a word.

"You asked me if I would be alright, given the events of the day. And I shook my head. And you got up and grabbed a blanket off the armchair, settled down next to me and reclined against the back of the couch. And then you told me you would stay. That you promised you wouldn't let anything happen to me."

The only truth he knows.

"I leaned back and you put the blanket over us and carefully reached for my wrist. I could feel your thumb tracing the skin of my scar in steady motions, up and down, and I closed my eyes and you pressed your lips against my temple, and then you said—"

" _Tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness._ "

He lets the words hang between them. Had to complete the memory himself.

"Yes." Her voice is impossibly wistful. "Yes, that's it."

The record has stopped.

"Why are you here, Lizzie?"

Her hands are perfectly still when she looks back at him. The words sharp as a knife.

"Because I want to know why you broke your promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness" is a phrase from a lovely poem by Pablo Neruda and will be elaborated on in the next chapter.


	3. Please Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments - they mean a great deal. Enjoy!

He had almost felt the words before they struck him. Had almost anticipated the impact.

And still...

Still, they stung. Still, they hit their target perfectly. Still, he really hadn't been ready at all.

He wants to get up and put on another record, something poignant, yes, but with no part in their story, something that would end the lingering silence and fill the room with sound, with rhythm, with something that would help him concentrate.

But he doesn't. He sits and hesitates, tries to contemplate how to proceed, her eyes staring and staring and _staring_ , pleading for an explanation, for anything.

He could defend his actions, could tell her that what he did was best for the both of them, could make himself a liar in the process because he knows it isn't true. He knows by the way she is looking at him now that none of it is true.

He could try to explain, could offer her the truth she already suspects, tell her that she could still have her fantasy. Tell her that he couldn't have been the one to ruin it.

He could tell her he loved her.

He could tell her, once and for all, that he loved her.

"Red? Do you want me to go?" he hears her say.

This is all he knows. To watch her leave. To break his own heart.

But he's tired of running. And he owes her this much.

"No, Lizzie." The first step. "Please stay."

* * *

He begins with the facts.

"I didn't break my promise. Whatever happens, wherever I am, I will always protect you. You should know that by now."

"But?"

She can still profile him much too easily.

"But you don't need me in your life, Lizzie. You don't need the destructive forces I impose on you, the chaos I bring."

She nods and he feels that familiar sensation, the visceral aching he has grown so accustomed to.

"You're right, Red. I don't need chaos or destruction," she pauses to observe him, her expression soft now, gentle, "but you're mistaken about the first part. I _do_ need you in my life. I need your obnoxious remarks, your outlandish stories, your encouragement, your approval even. I need your way of challenging me. I need someone who doesn't condemn me for the choices I've made. I need _you_. And if that entails chaos and destruction, then so be it. This is my past, too, Red. My burden to bear."

"But it shouldn't be."

"There are many things that shouldn't be but we endure them anyway, don't we? _Prevail and rise above it_. You told me that once."

"Under very different circumstances."

"That doesn't make it any less true." She sighs and leans forward, a subconscious move to be closer to him, the best she can muster. She just wants him to believe her. "Bad things happen to good people."

"But they shouldn't be happening to you."

"I'm not talking about myself, Red."

Oh.

_Oh._

He considered himself many things but not that. Never that.

He had always hoped for a second chance, had hoped that she could play her part in it. But what they had shared was something else entirely, a bond forged out of the ruins around them. A connection that had mended the scars of his past. Her smile as the bus had finally driven by and granted him a look. Her hand reaching for his in the back of a car, the memory of her embrace so vivid on his skin. The promise of something more and the lurking certainty that this too had to end. That he had never been one for happy endings.

And now all he can do is listen. Listen to every new truth she is willing to offer. Her tone defeated, her emotions palpable.

"I miss you, Red. I miss _us_. All these little moments keep replaying in my head and I can't seem to stop it. I think of you reciting Brecht and forgetting your lines, us dancing at the embassy, the first time I made you laugh. I think of all the awful things I've said to you, all the countless times you've saved me, made sure I was okay. I think about those instances to make myself believe that once there was something between us. Some kind of partnership, friendship—" She stops herself, doesn't dare to conclude the list. "What do you remember, Red?"

His eyes betray him before he manages to utter his response.

"Everything."

It's too much. Every word, every single one of her confessions.

"Why did you disappear then?"

He won't be able to stop it.

"Because you deserve a normal life."

Not good enough.

"And that doesn't include you?"

"I didn't think you'd want me in it."

Not nearly good enough.

"After everything we've been through you thought I wouldn't want you in it? Don't you think I should have a say in that decision as well?"

"I wanted to give you space."

He can feel his defenses shatter, the tension rising to the surface—

"But I don't want space or distance, Red, can't you see that? I don't want indifference."

"I could never be indifferent towards you, Lizzie."

His voice growing stronger, his hand trembling—

"Then why would you leave me?"

The final barrier breaking—

"Because I love you, Lizzie."

And silence.

He sighs, bows his head in resignation and says it again, quieter now, softer, lets himself get used to the words. How they palpitate, how they sound.

"Because I love you."

He doesn't notice her rise from the couch, doesn't hear her approach until she steps into his field of vision, her hand on his shoulder in a silent request for him to stand, her fingers moving down his arm as he gets up, never breaking contact, finally resting against his palm and holding on, her eyes searching his, a bit desperate, a bit helpless, yet beautifully determined and full of hope, her heartbeat steady against all odds.

_Tie me to a purer motion, to the constancy that beats in your chest._

And then she leans in and kisses him.


	4. What Now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a bit longer to write but I hope it was worth the wait. It makes for a good ending but if there's enough interest I could add a bit more to the story. Enjoy and let me know what you think! Thank you all for reading!

It takes him a moment.

It takes him a moment to grasp the ramifications of his admission, his deepest secret, so carefully kept and curated, his greatest vulnerability, his greatest strength. It takes him a moment to realize that she's standing impossibly close, that he can feel her heartbeat against his chest, that he's become oblivious to the world around them, that nothing else exists.

It takes him a moment to understand she's kissing him.

 _Lizzie_.

She's kissing _him_. And it's wonderful and breathtaking and _just right_.

It's an eternity. A reverie.

Her fingers subconsciously curling around his neck, covering the small scar she had left him with once, a talisman, a sigh caught in the back of his throat and his hands moving to her waist, holding on and pulling and pulling, all his doubts, his pain and sins vanishing with every passing second, and he thinks the reality of it all is better than anything he could have ever imagined. The reality of it all is perfect. Gentle, yet determined. Skillful and overwhelming.

She never ceases to amaze him.

When it stops, he doesn't dare to open his eyes. But he feels her lips on his cheek, the warmth of her slowly fading.

"Another drink?" he hears her whisper.

His voice sounds oddly broken when he responds.

"Please."

* * *

She refills the glass and puts it back on the table, walks over to the record shelf and takes her time to make the right pick. He's taught her well, has spent entire evenings explaining the idiosyncracies of certain artists to her, has trained her to listen.

She hadn't cared much about jazz before their time on the run, hadn't given it much thought. Until he had made it a ritual to listen to a different record every night they escaped the FBI. A reminder they were still carrying on, a remedy for the constant threats chasing them. The most effective medicine to calm her nerves.

And then there was him. The way he spoke about his passions, the things that helped him persist. The small pleasures he indulged in.

The truth was she could have hated jazz and she wouldn't have said a word. The truth was she just wanted to hear another story.

He still hasn't moved when she returns to the couch. She notices his fingers twitch as the first notes of the piano fill the room, watches his eyes open.

"Red?"

He still can barely look at her. She hopes it's not regret that stops him.

"Lizzie, I—"

"Don't. Please, Red. No more excuses, okay?"

He sits down next to her then, doesn't leave any room between them. His hand slowly searching for hers, his touch almost timid.

"Okay."

* * *

"When you said you remembered _everything_ ," she begins softly, "what were you thinking of?"

He keeps his gaze fixed on the lines in her palm, traces them with his thumb.

"Your solid grasp on my hand. I remember the blood, the sting of the bullet. And then suddenly it all stopped. I reached out for you and you took my hand in yours, trembling the faintest bit. I remember the way you looked at me. Like you didn't want to lose me, like you needed me to hang on. And somehow that was good enough. Knowing you would miss me, even after everything we had been through, after everything I had done. Somehow that was…enough."

"Red—"

"I remember your head on my shoulder and how _good_ it felt, knowing you trusted me. I remember the gunshot and how I turned around and saw you. How you had come back to save me. Not many ever have."

She can't speak, her mind fully focused on his words and the truth no longer buried.

"I remember how fragile you looked when I saved you from the Stewmaker and I remember hating myself for failing to protect you. I remember how impressed I was that evening in Montreal. By your profiling, by you. You left me speechless, Lizzie. I remember how nervous you were during our dance at the embassy. How you smiled at me, and your story. Omaha and the night manager." A quiet chuckle escapes him. "I very much remember the dress you wore."

She thinks she's made the right choice. Knocking on his door was the right choice.

" _I so want to know how you see things_. I remember how much I've been longing to talk to you over these past weeks. It's been awfully quiet without you. And I know I shouldn't have...I shouldn't have left the way I did. I shouldn't have left, period. And I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I never meant to cause you—" He lifts his head to meet her eyes, searches for any kind of sign, her expression so achingly kind and his hand moving to her cheek on its own accord, a wistful impulse, the air between them alive and stirring.

"Forgive me, Lizzie," he whispers before he presses his lips to hers.

It's different this time. Like the fear is gone. With his fingertips against her skin and their scars mending and time standing still. With him leading the way and making promises.

She misses him the moment he pulls away.

She thinks she could get used to this. Kissing him. Listening to him sharing secrets. Maybe she already has.

"What now?" she asks.

"Now something new will begin," he says, smiling.

They've been here before, together on the couch, all those months ago. _I won't let anything happen to you_ and _of course I'll stay_. She could fall asleep instantly, the exhaustion finally settling, her mind at rest, her body so perfectly comfortable next to his.

But she doesn't want to. She wants to listen to his breathing, wants to feel the tension subside with every exhale. There's so much to discover now. So much she wants to tell him.

She'll begin with the easiest part.

"Red?"

"Yes?"

This is where she belongs.

"I love you, too."


End file.
